The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [292]
The monastery was still there, alone in the wilderness; a vestigial fortified city, containing the smallest and richest independent church in the world, protected by all those to whom it was useful: the Western Church of Rome, the Eastern Church, Greek descendant of Byzantium, and the authority of Mohammed, as expressed through the imams of the Sultan of Cairo. It had a mosque inside, as well as St Catherine.
Jan Adorne did not know why his father proposed going there. It was not for the sake of Katelijne – he had not offered to take her, originally. Of course he himself was devout. There were Crusaders and Knights of St John in his ancestry; the family had always been concerned with the Levant; their private church reproduced the Holy Sepulchre. He came to gain merit, and from piety.
He came also, Jan took for granted, to settle some matters of trade and to exchange information, not necessarily on his own behalf, with other lords and informants. The Duke of Milan and the Duke of Burgundy had each, in the past, sponsored the tour of a noble pilgrim whose duty was not simply to report on the marvels of travel. It was possible that his own grandfather and great-uncle had combined patriotism with pilgrimage. It was remotely possible that James, Lord Hamilton had made his tour of the sainted shrines for the same purpose, and that Father was performing the identical office for the present Scots King. A waste of time, in Jan Adorne’s view. He had a low opinion, at the moment, of Scotland.
All right, the Adornes were great men: Doges, ducal Receivers; their homes used by princes. Everyone knew Anselm Adorne was pernickety: para tutum was the family motto. He had been a kind enough father, and generous. He was used to organising. He was not accustomed to being crossed. When, as became clear, stout Reyphin, however jolly a drinking companion, couldn’t hold his wine or his water or keep his head in an emergency, his father had gritted his teeth and given him the clerking to do.
When, as he might have expected, he grew thoroughly sick of long-faced Kinloch and his complaints and his sermons, he had set him to compile a Flemish-Arabic dictionary to supplement the one they already had (which had included, before his father had vandalised it, the words ‘Woman, will you sleep with me?’ in thirteen dialects). When Lambert and Jan himself became too noisy, his father became at first sardonic and then, as his temper worsened, issued penalties.
But when his father wanted to do something, he did it. When he wanted to see someone in Cairo he disappeared, bare feet, Coptic blue robes and all, and only turned up when the Dragoman needed paying. When they had to abandon all the diversions of the Abundance to trail out to the first staging-post of their journey, Jan and the rest were left among the Arab tents at Birkat al-Hadjd while his father wandered off before dawn on some errand. In the event, he didn’t return until noon, which would have let them swim at the Garden of Balm if they’d known. He said someone had delayed him, and was angry when some officials arrived who delayed them still further. The only person to leave happy was Kathi, who had received a message she wouldn’t show anyone.
And that was the last thing. Cousin Kathi, the ailing, the female, had pleaded to come, and his father had let her.
Lambert was ecstatic. Jan was not. They had to drop their swearing-competitions, and the secret refills from the wine-skins, and the wagers Brother Lorenzo thought sinful. Not that Kathi minded wagers; but she was a girl, and couldn’t keep secrets.
Normally, it was fifteen days